


heart between your teeth

by schwule



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Addiction, Anxiety Disorder, Closeted Character, Depression, Implied Overdose, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-04-23 19:53:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4889971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schwule/pseuds/schwule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe Jack's not the only one who's scared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jack

**Author's Note:**

> title from jenny owen youngs' song "fuck was i".

**2009**

 

"We should go to Europe instead," Kent says. He toes the soccer ball into the air and starts juggling it. "Tell them we're a package deal."

He's not serious. Of course he's not. But this is the only way they talk about what's going to happen in a few days. By skirting around it and coating it in jokes, as if they're not exchanging increasingly panicked looks, as if their kisses aren't growing more urgent, as if they haven't been clinging to and clutching at each other every night since Kent arrived in Montreal. Jack's certain that it would be simpler to just have an actual conversation about it. But they never really seem to do anything the simple way.

"Germany," Kent continues. "Or. I dunno. Switzerland. Sweden. Somewhere where there's snow."

Jack looks up at him from where he's sitting on the lawn. "We'd make some headlines, for sure."

Kent kicks the ball higher up into the air and catches it between his hands. "Right? Imagine everyone's faces." He smiles to himself and spins the ball on the tip of his finger. "We could actually go there in the off-season, you know. Next year. See all your world war shit."

Next year.

Having Kent to himself on another continent would undisputably be pretty awesome, but the mere thought of there being a next year exhausts Jack. He lowers himself onto his back, stretches out on the grass. It's a little dry, tickles the backs of his legs and arms, and the sky is so bright that it hurts to look at. He tries to sound excited. "That'd be cool."

Kent lets the ball fall to the ground and moves away only to come back a second later with Jack's camera hanging from his neck. He takes his shoes and socks off and places his feet on either side of Jack's head before raising the camera. Jack grabs Kent's calves and looks into the lens, waits for the shutter to click.

The sunlight brings out the green tinge in Kent's eyes when he peers down at Jack after snapping a few pictures. There's a sincerity in his expression that ties knots in Jack's stomach, and he drops his head to his left and licks Kent's ankle, once, to make him laugh, to get that too-serious look off his face. There's not enough time for that.

"You're such a weirdo," Kent says. Smiles and ruffles Jack's hair with his foot.

 

They have the house to themselves for a few hours that night, so they skip dinner in favor of screwdrivers, end up tipsy and half-naked in the living room, and Jack lets Kent come in his mouth for the first time. It feels weird. The same kind of weird that kissing was before he got used to it. The same kind of weird that fucking still is.

Kent traces Jack's lips with his fingers, after, follows the touch with his own lips, and Jack feels floaty and happy, the couple extra pills he took after his shower meshing with the warmth of the vodka and the slow rush of having Kent's skin under his hands, making his head so, so silent, and he wants to stay like this forever. All body, no brain.

 

 

He calls the ambulance himself. Drops the phone three times, can't hold it without bones in his hand.

 

 

Kent's mind seems to run three laps in the same time as Jack's runs one, and he can point out things that Jack doesn't see, has a way of scanning the ice and reading plays that Jack's always been in awe and envious of. He can slip through his opponents' defenses like water through a sieve: can slide into the role of Kent Parson, Top NHL Prospect, Unruly But Charming just as smoothly. And even though Jack knows Kent in ways he didn't even know it was possible to know another person, knows Kent in ways that makes his head spin, Kent has become so good at hiding behind his own face that he's started fooling Jack, too, and when Jack stares down at the picture on the front page of the Gazette, he can’t tell if Kent is genuinely happy or not.

 

 

Jack doesn’t want Kent to fail, but he’s not sure he can handle Kent winning without him.

 

 

**2012**

 

Getting better means changing, and there are parts of Jack that desperately cling to the safety of staying the same. Getting better is the hardest thing he's ever had to do. It seems unfair, somehow, that convalescence should be so painful, so indefinite. So possibly never-ending.

Freshman year is a jumble of hours and hours and hours at the rink, learning how to be on a team again, and hours and hours and hours in the library, hunching over books with an impending sense of failing to get anything he reads past the static noise in his head. The team doesn't qualify for playoffs, and that spring, Jack's so wound up that he spends more nights than he can count curled in around the surge in his chest, digging his fingernails into his arm, searching for a sliver of relief. He thought the panic would get easier to live with in time, but it just grows more tedious. He misses the pills so much that he swears he can still feel the bitter taste of them in his mouth. 

After one particularly bad week, he steals enough of Shitty’s weed to keep him high without pause for two days. It’s a refuge. A sanctuary. He doesn't let himself smoke again after that. He's sick of feeling like shit all the time, and giving in to the pull would take a lot less effort than kicking against it, but giving in would also be a kind of hell, and he’s spent so much time trying to convince himself that he prefers one where he’s sober that he’s almost started to believe it.

 

"Anxiety is not a character flaw," his therapist keeps telling him. He hopes he'll start believing her, too.

 

 

**2013**

 

Someone has the same honey blonde hair. Someone the same Islanders shirt. Someone sighs the same way. Someone has the same posture, someone the same gait, someone the same scratch in their voice. But it's never him. Until it is.

He's leaning on one of the wooden pillars on the Haus porch, his arms crossed over his chest, frantically chewing gum as if he's trying to grind it into meal between his molars.

Jack's stomach churns: he stops at the bottom of the steps and grips the strap on his backpack a little tighter. "What are you doing here?"

Kent purses his lips, takes his sunglasses off and hangs them on the collar of his t-shirt. The bags under his eyes are almost purple – he's clearly hungover – and his left wrist is in a brace. Jack’s not surprised: Kent’s been playing with more caution than usual for over a week.

“I was in the neighborhood," Kent says.

Jack walks past him to the front door. Opens it, lets Kent walk in first. Just then, Shitty comes down the stairs, looking like he's just woken up. He doesn't have a thread on him. Jack wants to say something, tell him to go put some fucking pants on, but his mouth has gone dry, and he’s too warm, too dizzy, so he slips into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water instead. Takes small sips from it as he tries to block out Kent and Shitty's conversation. 

After a while, he hears Shitty walk back up the stairs, and Kent joins him in the kitchen. Jack offers him the glass, and Kent takes it, downs what's left in it. Jack refills it and passes it back to him.

“He seems nice,” Kent says, gesturing towards the hall.

"Yeah." Jack nods. "He's my best friend." He knows it's a low blow: doesn’t even know if it's true.

Kent's mouth twists into a bitter smile. He takes his cap off, opens and closes the snaps over and over again. 

“Glad you got rid of the beard," Jack says.

“This your weird way of congratulating me?”

“I already did that.”

“Yeah, thanks a bunch for the one-word text, that was really thoughtful of you.”

“What did you expect?”

“You could at least _try_ to be happy for me. It’s not my fault that I --”

“That you’re what? Better than me?”

“Come on. That’s not what I --”

“You’re basically him when he was our age,” Jack says, cutting Kent off again. “Which means you’re everything he wishes I could've been.”

"That's bullshit."

Jack shakes his head. Thinks about the look on his dad’s face when Kent won the Calder. How happy he was. Proud. He only looked at Jack with worry, back then.

Kent sighs. “I bet you could win every damn trophy in the hockey world and still feel like you’re not good enough for him.”

Jack closes his eyes. Doesn't look up until he hears Kent put the glass down on the counter. Watches him take his gum out and drop it in an empty Solo cup before he turns back towards Jack. 

“Can I hug you."

Jack closes his eyes again. "I guess."

He's made himself forget what it's like to have Kent this close to him. It hurts to be reminded, but when Kent starts stepping back, Jack stops him halfway. Holds him there. His breath is heavy and warm on Jack's throat, and he leans in, trails his lips from Jack's collarbone up to his jaw, then stills, waits. Jack takes his head in his hands and kisses him.

His tongue tastes like Juicy Fruit. Like they're seventeen again.

That's the last thing in the world Jack wants to be.

 

Jack’s made himself forget what it's like when Kent fucks him, too, and this time, it pisses him off to be reminded. Kent tries to move under him, but Jack doesn't let him: grabs his arms and pins them to the mattress above his head, weighs him down with his body. Kent's pulse ticks under his right palm. "Almost forgot you're like this," Kent says, looks up at Jack with that lopsided Cheshire cat smile that Jack loves and hates in equal measure.

 

Kent shrugs his hoodie on and digs a soft pack of Marlboros out of one of its pockets. Shakes a cigarette out of the pack and pinches it between his lips, opens Jack's window.

"Want one?" Kent throws the pack towards the bed. It lands on the pillow beside Jack. He picks it up and smells it: has always liked the smell.

"Or we can share," Kent says. He flicks his lighter without result, shakes it, flicks it again, can't get anything but sparks out of it. "Shit."

Jack rolls out of bed and gets a matchbox from the bottom drawer of his desk, shields the flame from the wind when he lights the cigarette.

"Thanks." Kent takes a long drag, blows the smoke out the window. Most of it trickles back into the room.

"Thought you'd quit," Jack says.

Kent hums. "Special occasion."

“So was this like. Your victory fuck or something."

Kent stares at Jack until Jack feels so dumb that he has to turn his face away.

“Why would you even think that," Kent says.

"Then why did you come here? To rub it in my face?"

Kent gnaws on his thumbnail. Huffs. “You’re exhausting, you know that?”

Jack almost laughs. Better than most, he thinks.

Kent stubs out the cigarette on the window frame and throws it onto the roof. “It's like you think I'm some ghost from your past that’s come back to haunt you." He brushes past Jack, grabs his jeans off the floor and pulls them on, steps into his sneakers and puts his snapback on with the visor facing forward.

"That’s just wrong,” Jack says. He takes the hat off and turns it around. Does his best to stuff Kent's cowlick under it when he puts it back on.

Kent peers up at him. “I missed you. That’s why.” He shrugs. "Simple as that."

Jack doesn't know what to say. He's not sure he knows what missing someone means anymore. Feels like he emptied that tank long ago.

He moves to get dressed himself, throws on a t-shirt and a pair of sweats. Shoves Kent towards the door. "Come on, I’ll make you something to eat before you go.”


	2. Kent

**2007**

 

They’ve been at the party for two hours, and Jack’s already wasted. Not that anyone else would notice - Jack’s good at playing sober, never seems to lose control - but Kent can tell from how he doesn’t bat an eye when Kent climbs over the back of the couch and flops down in his lap, spilling beer over both of them. He just smiles drowsily and listens to Kent’s rundown of the hazards of venturing to the second floor.

“... so it’s basically soft porn with a backdrop of weed and vomit up there.”

Jack scrunches his nose. “Ew.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Kent chugs the rest of his beer and throws the can over his shoulder.

“What the actual fuck, Parse,” someone hollers behind him.

Jack’s hand flies up, knocks the can away before it hits the back of Kent’s head. 

Kent bumps their shoulders together. “Look at you, looking out for your brand new alternate.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack says. He leans back and sighs at the ceiling. Fiddles absently with the back hem of Kent’s shirt.

“Wanna get out of this dump?” Kent says. He’s pleasantly drunk but, “I’m not really feeling it tonight.”

“Okay,” Jack yawns. “But only if we can go to your place and eat ramen.”

 

It’s so cold outside that Kent’s eyelashes freeze to each other.

“This is ridiculous,” Kent mutters. “Ice should only be allowed in rinks."

“You just have to blink faster.”

Kent turns around and walks backwards in front of Jack, bats his lashes at him. “Like this?”

Jack snorts and checks him into a snowdrift. Kent’s going to miss him over the holidays.

 

 

He's never thought less of himself for liking boys. It's just so inconvenient.

 

 

**2008**

 

They're huddling under several layers of blankets in Kent's basement room, watching reruns on TV, both of them recovering from a bad cold. Kent's tongue is raw from all the cough drops he's eaten, and now that his fever’s gone down, he’s getting restless. He pokes at Jack's leg with his foot until he gets a glare out of him.

”What.”

”I'm bored.”

Jack hums.

Kent pokes him again. ”Jaaaaaack.”

”What,” Jack says again.

”I don't know. Make something happen.”

”Do it yourself. I'm tired.”

”You're boring, is what you are.”

Jack glares at him again. Then he shifts, snakes an arm out from under the covers and shoves Kent to the side. When Kent pushes back, Jack uses his other hand to swat at him with a pillow. Kent grabs it, tips forward into Jack when Jack yanks it back. They wrestle each other until the blankets are all twisted and Kent has managed to slither out of Jack's iron grip and down on the floor. Jack looks down at him and laughs himself into a coughing fit.

“Jesus,” he says, when it subsides. He pulls his sleeve over his hand and wipes at his eyes. "Let's _not_ do that again."

Kent climbs back onto the couch and readjusts the blankets around them. Passes the bag of cough drops to Jack.

"I like not being sick by myself,” Jack says, still wheezing a little.

Kent smiles, hugs his knees to his chest. "Yeah, me too,” he says, even though his family’s big enough that he doubts he’s ever been.

They watch some French show where everyone speaks so fast that Kent doesn’t catch a single word despite having picked up quite a bit of it in the past year. But he doesn't care, because under the blankets, Jack's holding his foot in his hand, stroking his thumb back and forth over its side, and every bone in Kent’s body has gone heavy.

He wants to turn, to look at Jack's face, but he can’t make himself move. I'll do it at the next commercial break, he tells himself. But it comes too soon, and he can’t do it, decides to wait until the next one. His heart feels oddly thick as he stares at the screen, unsure whether he wants time to speed up or slow down. It seems to stop when the credits start rolling. 

He swallows. It’s loud, and Jack's hand goes still. He swallows again, and Jack reaches for the remote, turns the TV off before the commercials start. Kent's completely at a loss by his plan being thwarted until he notices that Jack's holding his breath: for some reason, this unfreezes him. When he stirs, Jack lets go of his foot.

"Sorry," Jack says, not taking his eyes off the TV.

Kent feels like Jack’s watching him through the screen. "It's fine."

Jack's mouth twitches. Kent stares at it, shifts closer.

"Zimms. Hey."

Jack lets out a shaky laugh when Kent touches his face.

They’ve never talked about it, so Kent doesn't actually know for sure, but he doesn't think Jack's kissed anyone before. Kent has, but never a boy.

Jack’s lips are dry, a little scratchy, the inside of his mouth scorching. He’s probably spiking a fever again, Kent states to himself, feeling strangely calm now that he's finally in the midst of this possibly life-altering moment. Jack starts tugging on his shirt after a while, and slowly but surely, Kent moves onto his lap. But when he smooths his hands down Jack’s chest, Jack's lungs start rattling again. Okay, not gonna lose my v-card today, Kent thinks, burying his face in the crook of Jack’s neck. He smells so fucking good that Kent wants to bite him. Jack yelps when he does.

 

Three days later, they’re back in the same spot, and they’ve been making out for two minutes _tops_ when Jack unbuttons Kent’s jeans and shoves them down along with his underwear. He takes a second to just stare at Kent’s dick before he wraps his fingers around it and looks up at Kent, smirking. It’s funny, how Jack seems to be infinitely less nervous about what is presumably his first hand job than he was about what was presumably his first kiss.

Kent comes on his shirt. “You’re washing this,” Jack says, pulls it over his head and throws it to the side. Does the same with Kent’s.

 

 

When Jack says, "You can't tell anyone about this", he’s not talking about them jerking each other off in Kent’s basement.

 

 

**2009**

 

Jack breaks down in a hotel room in Halifax because he can't find his vitamin bottle in his bag. 

Kent’s pissed at himself for not realizing earlier. 

He doesn't confront Jack this time, is too tired to deal with him turning defensive. Does what he can to distract Jack instead. Coaxes him onto one of the beds, scratches his back and scalp until he goes limp and falls asleep.

 

 

He feels the most real when he's with Jack. But Jack escapes reality every chance he gets.

 

 

He sits down on one of the tire swings that the city's forgotten to take down for the winter, adjusts his scarf to shield his face from the needle-like snow. Jack comes up behind him, grabs the chains on either side of his head, and Kent leans back against the front of his down jacket, looks up at the same time as Jack looks down. His eyes are grey rather than blue in the dim light from the streetlamps. Kent doesn't let himself dwell on whether they look glassy or not.

"Here." Kent yanks one of his earphones out and gives it to Jack. Jack holds it to his ear but doesn't plug it in, smiles the same indulging smile he always smiles when Kent makes him listen to something. It's Paper Planes, this time. A little misplaced, maybe, in midwinter Quebec. But Kent likes the contrast.

Jack scans the streets around them before he pulls Kent's scarf back down and gives him a quick kiss. Kent's heart jumps – he always gets a kick out of kissing in public, even though no one's around. It makes him feel normal. Like a real teenager.

"Did you like it?" Kent asks.

"Hm?"

"The song."

"Oh. Um. It was okay, I guess."

Kent snorts. "God, you're such a shitty critic."

"What, didn't you get a D on your book review?"

"Yeah, but that was because I lacked effort, not opinions."

Truth is, Kent didn’t even read the book. Reading’s never been anything but a source of frustration for him, so he just watched the movie instead. Whatever. The chains whine when he slides off the swing. He trudges through the snow, across the playground, climbs into the little hut on top of the slide. Jack follows him. There's barely enough room for both of them, but they can't be seen from either of the adjoining streets when they're up there. Which means they can smoke menthols and make out. And that’s really all Kent wants to do.

 

 

He doesn't have time to fall apart, turns his autopilot on as soon as he finds out. When the reporters at the draft ask him about Jack, he just shakes his head, says, “No comment”.

 

 

Kent tries to call Jack, but his number is no longer in service. He calls the clinic, but they have a family only policy. He calls Alicia, but only gets her voicemail. Bob picks up, though, is as polite as ever when he tells Kent that he should give Jack some space. Kent wants to tell Bob to fuck off with his fucking space, but he doesn't. He hangs up and tries to break his phone in two. When that doesn't work, he hurls it at the wall. It doesn't make him feel better.

 

 

**2010**

 

He either feels too much, or nothing at all. It's like he's lost his middle ground. 

 

 

He’s back at home for a few days over Christmas. Skates with his brothers, takes his parents to see True Grit, gets cajoled into drinking whiskey and tries to help with the cooking. On the last night, he finds his mom reading in the living room and sits down on the floor beside her, says, “Can you tell me something about me”. She gives him a long, searching look before she dog-ears the page she’s on and closes the book. Doesn’t ask, just tells him everything she can think of.

 

 

**2013**

 

“Are you still friends with Bad Bob’s kid?” Berger says when he comes back from the kitchen with chopsticks. He sits down beside Kent on the couch, reaches for one of the take out boxes.

“Why?”

“I dunno. Just curious. I mean. You never talk about him, but you have a picture of him on your fridge?” Berger pokes around in his Pad Thai.

Kent likes Berger enough that he doesn’t want to bullshit him, but he’s not sure how to avoid it without telling the truth. 

He settles for, “It’s complicated.” It comes out more standoffish than he intends.

“Oh.” Berger frowns. “Okay.” He stuffs his mouth with noodles.

Kent feels awkward. “You want a beer?” he says, standing up. Gets a curt nod in response.

He takes two Coronas out of the fridge and pops the caps. Stops to look at the photo, at Jack lying between his feet in the grass. Thinks about how he had almost let out the “I love you” that had been buzzing in his head, but had kept quiet, worried that it was too early, or too late, or that he'd just made it up. He used to regret not saying it, but he doesn’t, anymore. 

When he comes back into the living room, Berger smiles apologetically. “Didn’t mean to pry, bro.”

Kent hands him one of the bottles, takes a long swig from his own.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, just as a mix of fury and exhaustion flares up inside him. He puts his beer down on the coffee table with a loud clonk. Berger raises his eyebrows at him.

“Fuck it,” Kent says. “Do you know what he did after I took that picture?”

“What?” Berger says.

Kent bursts out laughing. “Sucked me off on his parents’ divan.”

Berger gapes. The noodles he just fished out with his chopsticks slide back down into the box.

“Well shit,” Berger says. Then he starts grinning. “Was it good?”

“I was seventeen. _Of course_ it was good.” Kent feels like he’s stepping away from a ledge.


	3. Jack

**2013**

 

One of the freshmen shows up to their first skate with a pie clenched tightly in his hands. He's cute, likeable. Sweet. Jack has no idea how to be around someone like him.

 

 

It’s not unfamiliar to Jack, the hunted look in Bittle's eyes when someone gets close enough to check him. Nor is the way he grits his teeth and flares his nostrils, trying to catch his breath quietly once he’s pushed himself up on his skates again. But compassion isn’t what drives Jack to help him. It’s responsibility. He can’t have a liability on his team.

The checking clinics are discouraging in the beginning. Bittle becomes frustrated and flustered, Jack frustrated and impatient. But one morning Bittle laces his skates with a determined, tight-lipped expression that looks kind of comical on his face, and he surprises Jack by staying on his feet for almost all of thirty-five minutes. When Jack tells Shitty about it later that day, Shitty gives him an unimpressed look. "Guess he finally got sick of you screaming in his face all the damn time,” he says, somehow managing to speak while simultaneously stuffing a red Twizzler into his mouth. "Good for him."

Jack makes an effort to be nicer after that.

But then Bittle scores against Yale, and Bob is just chirping when he says that Jack probably wanted to score the game-clinching goal himself, but it’s _true_ , and it makes his hand feel like lead on Jack’s shoulder. I’ll never be as good a captain, Jack thinks, how could I, I’m a fucking joke, I can’t even pretend to be happy for my own teammate, can’t even feel good about _winning_ if it can’t be credited to me. Hell, Jack's sure that _Kent's_ a better captain than him, despite being green - even back when he was Jack's alternate, it was clear that he knew how to be supportive in a way that Jack didn't, and he’d never, ever be this petty.

Jack can’t resist making it worse when Bittle catches him outside Faber. There’s something so satisfying about it, proving to himself that he truly is a contemptuous fuck-up. 

 

 

**2014**

 

At the beginning of spring term, Jack finds out that Bittle’s gay. That he’s _out_ \- to some extent, at least. And it’s not a big deal, not really, except for how Jack’s suddenly mad at _Bittle_ because _he_ can’t be out. It’s entirely groundless and idiotic, but then he never has coped with jealousy very well. Or at all.

 

 

He ends up chewing Bittle out in front of the whole team again. Multiple times. For meaningless mishaps. When Lardo finds out, she scolds him for it, asks him what the hell his problem is, why he’s gotten so nasty, “You weren’t like this last year”, and Jack’s seen her go off before but never at him, and it hits him hard enough that he’s close to tears for the first time since June. 

When they’ve both calmed down, Lardo gives him a long hug. “Sorry I yelled at you, bro.”

“Don’t be,” Jack says. “I deserved it.”

Lardo laughs into his chest. “Yeah you did.”

They go out for froyo after, to amp up their blood sugar, both of them still a little jittery. There are no free tables at Superberry, so they eat while walking back to the Haus. Once they’re inside again, Lardo grabs her laptop out of her bag and shows Jack her photos from Kenya, sighs deeply but smiles all the same when he doesn’t let her skip a single one: he wants to look at all of them. Even the boring ones.

 

 

Jack feels childish, snapping at his roommates and storming out of rooms, slamming doors behind him, only barely having self-restraint enough not to start breaking things as well. His anxiety has always made him bad-tempered, but it’s never been this obvious before. Never this external. He’s not sure if he’s generally angrier now, or if he’s simply lost his ability to clamp down on it, but it's embarrassing either way.

He decides to avoid Bittle as much as he can until his bitterness dies down. It takes longer than it should. Doesn’t exactly help that playing on the same line has him constantly aware of where Bittle is in relation to him both on and off the ice.

 

 

Johnson keeps rambling about redemption arcs throughout the rest of the spring. It’s tiring, but Jack resists the urge to tell him to shut up.

 

 

After the summer, Bittle still looks surprised whenever Jack talks to him about anything other than hockey. But there’s something different about him, too. At first, Jack attributes it to his new haircut making him look older. But that explanation doesn’t cut it for long. It doesn’t make sense of why Bittle's presence is suddenly so loud.

 

 

Lardo climbs up on a kitchen chair and places the cat ears she’s made out of papier-mâché and fabric on Jack’s head. Takes a short pencil stub out of her pocket and cups Jack’s chin.

“Hold still,” she says.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack can see Bittle turning to watch them. Lardo draws three thick lines on each of Jack’s cheeks, and a circle on the tip of his nose that she smears with her thumb. It usually makes him uncomfortable, having someone else’s face this close to his, but when Lardo’s done and leans back to inspect her work, he wishes she hadn’t finished so soon.

“Now all you need is a tail and a laser to chase.” Lardo jumps off the chair, lands with a thud on the floorboards. “Yo, Bits. You’re up.”

“All right, just a sec.” Bittle takes a small bottle out of the cupboard to his right and pours something into the bowl in front of him. Lardo hops up to sit on the counter beside him. 

Bittle glances at Jack as he wipes his hands on his apron. “You better not go crossin’ any streets today, Mr. Zimmermann,” he says.

Jack looks down at his clothes. “My shoes aren’t black, though.”

Bittle laughs. “Well, then I guess it’s all right if you wanna go out and play.”

“I think I’d rather be a house cat.”

“Our very own Haus house cat,” Bittle says, smiling.

Lardo prods him with her shoe. “C’mon, kiddo.” 

Jack wishes he could get it on film: Bittle standing between Lardo’s knees, hanging on to his own elbows, his face relaxed as Lardo gently spreads eyeshadow over his eyelids with her finger, biting her lip in concentration, the yellow-y afternoon light pouring over them through the window, making them look soft, almost dreamlike. He wishes it didn’t make him feel so sad. Can't remember when happy things started to.

“Can you stir the blood, Jack?” Bittle says, luring Jack out of his head. He waves his hand in the direction of the bowl. 

Jack sighs out a laugh. “Sure.” He takes a wooden spoon out of a drawer and starts stirring the goo. “What’s in this, anyway,” he asks.

“Water, maple syrup, cornstarch, and food coloring,” Bittle says.

“Looks pretty real.”

“Lemme see,” Lardo says. 

Jack angles the bowl towards them. “Mmm. Gross," Lardo says appreciatively.

“Might be a bit too compact, though?” Jack says. "It's very sludgy, I don't think it's gonna flow at all."

Bittle grabs the spoon out of Jack’s hand and moves it around. “Oh yeah, we should definitely dilute it.” 

Jack stirs down more water while Lardo fishes a tube out of her pocket and slaps it in Bittle’s hand. “It’s better if you do the mascara yourself,” she says. “I'd rather not poke your eyes out.”

“Today _would_ be the day to do that, though,” Bittle says.

“Chyeah. But then I would’ve used the wrong eyeshadow. This color definitely goes better with your eyes than your eye sockets.”

 

Bittle’s almost as tall as Jack in heels – which he's impressively skilled at walking in, and somehow even better once he's gotten a few cups of neon green punch in him - and it’s strange, having Bittle’s face level with his own. 

Jack’s cat ears slide askew when Shitty attack-hugs him and pats his hair, demanding Jack to purr for him. Once he's moved on to attack-hug Lardo instead, Bittle reaches up and readjusts the ears on Jack’s head, and his face is almost as close to Jack’s as Lardo’s was earlier, and Jack wishes Bittle would stay close too. But he couldn’t, not like this, even if he knew Jack wanted to. Not with the room full of people.

There are other ways to be close, though, and Bittle lights up when Jack offers to take a selfie with him, plucks his phone out of his apron and hands it to Jack. “Your arms are longer,” he says.

Bittle smiles when Jack puts his arm around his lower back. Leans his head lightly against Jack's, his wig scratchy on Jack’s temple. Jack has to retake the picture twice before he manages to keep his hand steady long enough not to blur it. 

They both look like they’re blushing in the picture. Jack lets Bittle tweet it anyway.

 

 

He’s in the middle of tackling Bittle to the kitchen floor when it dawns on him that touching Bittle hasn’t felt incidental in a long time. That he always wonders. It scares him, and it scares him that it scares him, and he gives himself a migraine worrying about what it means.

 

 

When he fell for Kent, he didn’t question it. Didn’t doubt his feelings. There was never any reason to. Not in the beginning. He thought falling would feel the same way the second time around. It doesn’t.

 

 

Jack’s high off of it, his skin tingling, begging - it feels like forever since he's been touched like this, and Kent's fingers are everywhere: pushing through his hair, tracing the hollows between his ribs, scratching over his abs, grabbing his ass, pressing into his back.

“You could’ve called,” Jack says.

Kent pulls back just enough so he can eye Jack with disbelief. “Like you would’ve picked up.”

Jack kisses him again, untucks Kent's shirt and rucks it up to thumb at his hips, to slide his hands up Kent’s sides and dig his fingers into Kent’s waist, but when Kent starts reaching for Jack’s fly, Jack is quick to catch his wrists. They may be good at fucking quietly, but it’s not worth the risk, and Jack's suddenly realizing that he needs to stop doing this, needs to stop throwing Kent crumbs, that it's cruel to keep him hungry this way, to keep him hoping - Jack sees it now, that that’s what he’s been doing, and Kent’s endured enough of his shit already, shouldn’t have to take more, and all Jack has to do to end it is what he does best: push Kent away. But for real this time.

Kent doesn’t hold back when he retaliates, and it hurts, of course it hurts, Kent knows him well enough to _make_ it hurt. 

Jack’s still wrung-out and puffy-eyed when he wakes up early the next morning. He curls up on his side, can’t muster the energy to get out of bed. Stares at his bedside wall for god knows how long, trying to understand why he feels so abandoned when he’s the one who made Kent leave.

 

 

**2015**

 

The roof is only lit up by a thin streak of light that peeks out from between Bittle's curtains, and if it weren't for the chilly breeze, Jack thinks he could fall asleep here, on the rickety lounger. Could, but doesn't want to, because Bittle is sitting next to him with his legs stretched out in front of him, his feet barely hanging over the ledge.

"Being different in any way was basically a one-way ticket to hell." Bittle's voice is light, as if he’s telling Jack a funny anecdote. "And I was a jock but I wasn't a _jock_ jock, you know? I tried to be, but. I wasn't very good at it. Not exactly a poster boy for masculinity. Obviously. So I was an easy target, I guess."

Bittle’s mouth curves into a little smile when he says that he still gets claustrophobic whenever he smells the detergent that his school used, no matter how lofty the space is, and it's not the first time Jack notices it, how Bittle tends to smile when he’s sad.

"I hate that you've had to go through all that," Jack says.

"Me too. But I mean... It got better after we moved. And nothing _really_ bad happened.” Bittle crooks his legs and rests his forearms on his knees, starts picking at his cuticles. “Could’ve been a lot worse.”

"Could've been a lot better, too," Jack says.

Bittle looks out over the street and sighs. "I’m just glad it’s over. That I’m here now."

They sit in silence for a while. 

"Kent used to be my boyfriend,” Jack says, finally.

Bittle could be a statue, he's so still.

"But I think maybe you’ve figured that out already.”

“Wasn't sure." Bittle glances at Jack and smiles. “I had a feeling, though.” He leans his head on the chair's armrest and laughs softly.

Jack feels like they're on the brink of it, of having the conversation they've been dodging since spring semester kicked off - that they've _been_ having, wordlessly, every time they've looked at each other a second too long. But then Bittle asks him if he's out to his parents, and they talk about that instead.

 

 

Jack used to sleep on the bathroom floor in his billet when he was really wasted, just in case. Didn't want to throw up on himself, or in his bed, or on the carpet.

He scared himself, sometimes. When he couldn't stop puking, was dehydrated but unable to keep any water he drank from coming back up. When he could only lie on the tiles in a drunken stupor, drifting in and out of a confused slumber, wondering if he’d end up in the hospital this time. Afraid that people would find out what he was doing. Afraid that he’d never get caught.

He can't take pills anymore, but he can drink without taking it too far, now. These days, his biggest problem with alcohol is that it makes him horny. When he’s drunk, he can’t look at Bittle without getting ideas in his head, and he _looks_. He looks and looks and looks, and later, when he’s alone in his room again, he jerks off to the thought of having Bittle under him, on him, in him. 

 

 

It’s still fairly early when Jack figures he’d better get Bittle back to the Haus to get some water and food in him before he passes out at the concert.

When he turns onto Jason Street, Bittle’s lips graze his ear. It startles Jack, and he loses his grip, almost drops Bittle. 

Bittle giggles when Jack hoists him back up. "Shouldn’t drink and drive, Jack.”

Jack snorts. "I think we both know who’s the drunk one here."

"Mmmm. You like me when I'm drunk, though.”

"Like you better when you’re sober.”

Bittle tightens his hold as if he's trying to hug Jack. “You’re so nice,” he says, pressing his cheek to the side of Jack’s neck. It’s cold: all of Bittle is cold. Dressing for the weather has never been his forte. It’s one of many things Jack’s going to chirp him for tomorrow.

 

 

Jack’s ears are pounding as he apologizes to his parents and walks off to search for Bittle in the crowd on Lake Quad. Jack finds him outside Kotter along with Dex and Chowder, and his legs feel odd when Bittle twists around, his eyes wet but bright when he meets Jack’s.

“Can you help me with something,” Jack says. Holds his hand to Bittle’s elbow. 

He must look as revved up as he feels, because Bittle just nods and follows him into the student center. Jack finds an empty toilet and locks them inside.

“You okay, Jack?”

“Uh-huh,” Jack says, but he's not. He's light-headed and freezing under his robes, and the butterflies in his stomach have gone vicious. He’s never known how to be good nervous: it's like his body can't distinguish between excitement and anxiety.

Bittle shifts worriedly in front of him.

“So… Okay.” Jack grips the edge of the sink behind him. He knows he won’t calm down until he’s said it, and he has to do it before he starts convincing himself not to, so he makes himself take a deep breath and forces the words out of his mouth. “So I was gonna kiss you, but now I’m realizing that I don’t really wanna do it in a toilet?"

Bittle's face does something weird, and then his eyes well up, and he squeezes them shut, covers them with his hand. “Oh lord,” he says. “Here I go again.”

“Come on." Jack laughs. "Keep it together, Bittle."

Bittle laughs, too, a little breathy, then uncovers his eyes, wipes at them. “You’re --” He looks fondly at Jack, shakes his head. “I don’t even know _what_ you are right now.”

Jack just smiles dumbly at him.

“What happens now?” Bittle says.

“I have to go. My parents are waiting.”

“Oh,” Bittle says, disappointed. “Of course.”

Jack’s palms are cold and clammy, so he brushes his knuckles down the side of Bittle’s face instead. Presses the tip of his thumb lightly to the corner of Bittle’s mouth. “But I'll see you tonight?”

Bittle lets out a long sigh. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

 

After having dinner with his parents and their family friends, Jack strolls aimlessly around campus for an hour or two before heading back to the Haus. He knows he’ll come back to Samwell, that this isn’t the last time he’ll cross these quads. But it won't be the same, and the melancholy of it is piercing.

 

Bittle unties the laces on his shoes and toes them off, flops down on Jack’s bed. Jack takes his shoes off, too, relieved: he's never liked wearing dress shoes - they’re too stiff, no spring in the sole. He shrugs his suit jacket off and hangs it on the back of his chair, loosens his tie and lifts the loop over his head, throws it on his desk. Takes his cufflinks off so he can roll his sleeves up, then slips into the bathroom to take a piss before he lies down next to Bittle.

Bittle rests his head on Jack’s arm, curls into his side. They still haven’t kissed.

“I’m not an easy person to be with,” Jack says.

Bittle twiddles with a button on Jack’s shirt. “Is anyone?”

“I’m serious, Bittle.”

“So am I.”


	4. Bitty

**2015**

 

Jack pulls an empty envelope out of the pile of mail at the tail end of the kitchen table, folds it carefully into a thin strip, unfolds it, and starts again. Bitty rests his pounding head in his hands and rubs his thumbs over his temples. He's been awake for thirty-two hours, and the insides of his eyelids feel like sandpaper. 

"But if we try harder..." he says. "We can try harder, right?"

Jack exhales sharply through his nose and looks up. Bitty feels sick when their eyes meet – there’s no one _to_ meet, really, in Jack’s. His face is completely vacant, and it scares Bitty more than Jack breaking up with him does. He hates when Jack retreats into himself like this, turns into this suspended version of himself that cuts off every hand Bitty offers him.

"I told you already," Jack says. “It’s not about that.”

”Then why.”

Jack looks out the window, squints against the noon sun. He barely moves his mouth when he speaks. "You're better off this way.”

Bitty shakes his head. ”What about you? Are _you_ better off?”

"That’s not…” Jack blinks slowly, as if he's about to nod off. “You don’t need to worry about that."

Bitty would laugh if his chest wasn't so heavy. Instead, he snatches the paper strip out of Jack's hands, unable to stand the sound of Jack fiddling with it any longer. 

"I’m not doing this to hurt you,” Jack says. “I’m doing it so I won’t.”

He's said similar things before, when he’s been low. Has tried to convince Bitty that he’s going to damage him in some awful irreversible way, and it’s so stupid, this twisted fiction that he’s made up, made himself believe in. Bitty feels helpless in the face of it, doesn’t know how to get the idea out of Jack’s head. If Jack even wants to let go of it. And he can’t tell Jack that he wants this, him, them, bad enough that he doesn’t care if he gets hurt, because that would only make it sound like he’s expecting it to happen. Or, at least that’s what Jack would hear.

"It doesn’t have to be like that," Bitty says. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I’m...” Jack falters. Clears his throat. “I’m going back to bed.” He pushes his chair back and stands up. "You should go home."

"I'm not gonna leave you alone when you're like this,” Bitty says, resolute. 

"I'm fine.”

Bitty glowers at him. "Sure you are,” he says, with as much sarcasm as he can muster up.

Jack closes his eyes. “Whatever," he says, turns on his heel. The bedroom door slams shut behind him.

 

Bitty doesn't know what else to do with himself, so he rolls up the sleeves on his cardigan and starts cleaning. Loads the dishwasher, scrubs the sink, fills a plastic bag with empty packages and wrappers and leftovers that've been stinking up the fridge; gathers the laundry that Jack's strewn all over the apartment, wipes down the bathroom, changes the bulb that burned out in the living room the last time he was here (three weeks ago, what the fuck, Jack), vacuums, and tidies up the pile of crap on the coffee table.

He's queasy from hunger once he’s finished. He only had a mouthful of coffee and half a banana before he got on the bus to Providence, couldn't get anything else down. Hasn't eaten since. He doubts Jack has bothered with food at all today, and there’s nothing but hot sauce, blue Gatorade, and three rolls of film in his fridge, so Bitty takes his keys and walks down to the grocery a few blocks away.

It shakes him, that the sun is still out, that the air outside is still rife with the smell of wet leaves, that people are still walking their dogs and laughing into their phones and picking their children up from school, that he still has to choose between twenty-four kinds of cereal and check the date on the milk and stand in line at the checkout. That the world is intact, unaffected, shuffling on. It feels like an insult.

 

Bitty doesn't hear the bedroom door open, nor Jack making his way into the kitchen, so when he's suddenly standing beside Bitty, watching him finish up the lattice on a blueberry pie, Bitty all but jumps into the air.

"Jesus." Bitty holds a hand to his stomach. "Are you trying to give me a stroke now, too."

Jack frowns. “You cleaned,” he says, a little sheepish. “You didn't have to do that.”

Bitty throws him a glance. He's slightly less dead-eyed than earlier, has that cute befuddled look he always has when he's waking up. Bitty bites the insides of his cheeks and shrugs. "It needed to be done, so."

"I've been meaning to -- Oh." Jack takes the pan that Bitty hands him. Opens the oven door and slides it in, watches the pie through the glass for a while before he straightens up again. "I've just been so..." he trails off, blinks at Bitty as if his face has caught him off guard somehow.

Bitty takes a step towards him, testing the waters, and the short hum that escapes Jack’s throat is all the incentive Bitty needs to close the remaining gap between them. Jack snakes his arms around him and rests his cheek on top of Bitty's head, his breath shivering out of him. Bitty hugs him as hard as he can.

 

They’re both too exhausted to talk, so after dinner and pie, they end up half-lying on opposite ends of the couch with their legs tangled in the middle. Just like any other night. Bitty stretches one of his legs out where there's still some room beside Jack, blows on the surface of his tea. Lets himself forget that it isn't.

A couple of minutes into their second episode of Parks and Rec, Jack reaches down and cups Bitty's knee. He doesn't move his hand until they scramble off the cushions to go to bed twenty minutes later, and it’s the longest apology Bitty's ever received.

 

“Hey.” Bitty hangs on the threshold to the bedroom. "Should I take the couch, or..."

Jack’s already in bed, lying on his side with the comforter pulled over his shoulder. They stare at each other.

"Um." Jack knits his brows. "I mean... If you want..."

"I'd rather stay in here," Bitty says, carefully stepping inside. “If that’s alright with you.”

"Yeah,” Jack says. He looks a little stunned. “Yeah, sure.”

Bitty flicks off the lights and grabs one of his sleep shirts out of Jack's closet. Has to pause and shove it in his mouth when he's hit with the realization that he might never get to have this again: have his favorite part of them, of Jack. The Jack that exists here, in the pocket between going to bed and falling asleep, the Jack that’s filterless, that talks to Bitty about anything and everything until they’re so tired that they’re just making sounds at each other. The Jack that dares to be naive and warm and close and _real_. Bitty already misses him.

 

Jack wakes him up in the middle of the night. "I still wanna be friends," he says behind Bitty’s back, his voice small, hurried. "I still wanna know you. I forgot to say that before. I’m sorry. I hope you want that too."

Bitty rubs sleep gunk out of his eyes before he turns around, props himself up on his forearms. “Of course I want that.”

Jack brings his hand up to Bitty's face, brushes his bangs back, away from his eyes, says, "Good."

The light touch of Jack's fingers on his forehead makes Bitty's throat thick, and he scooches forward and presses his lips to Jack’s, almost by reflex. Jack kisses back, but it’s too cautious, too soft, Bitty can’t bear the tenderness of it. Takes Jack’s lower lip between his teeth and bites down hard, doesn’t release it until Jack pushes him onto his back and crawls on top of him. He knows they're going to fuck when Jack runs the tip of his tongue over the roof of his mouth, and he knows it’s probably a bad idea, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

"This doesn't change anything," Jack says as he pushes Bitty’s underwear down.

Bitty keeps his eyes shut through it, doesn't even open them when Jack asks him to, just shakes his head and hooks his leg behind Jack's thighs, pulls him in deeper.

Jack comes inside him, and Bitty finally cries.

 

He packs his clothes in a Falconers canvas bag that Jack offers him. Finds a pair of flip-flops he never bothered to take back to Samwell after the summer and stuffs them down too, along with his shampoo and conditioner and some books that Jack's convinced are Bitty's even though he has no memory of buying them. He throws his toothbrush in the trash.

They take so long to say goodbye that Bitty misses the bus he had initially planned on taking. As soon as he’s left Providence, he texts Ransom and Holster and begs them to drink him under the table.

 

 

He wants to delete all his tweets about Jack. Wants to delete every vlog where he’s mentioned him. Wants to delete his accounts, delete Twitter, delete YouTube, delete the entire internet. Wants to delete the NHL so he can stop obsessively watching games (Jack hasn’t missed a single one, so at least he’s okay, at least he's still functioning). He wants to delete the part of his brain that jolts him every time someone mentions Jack. Wants to delete his relief over not having to deal directly with Jack’s illness anymore. Or at least delete the guilt he feels over it.

 

 

His phone buzzes just as he leaves the coffee shop. It's Lardo, informing him that tomorrow’s practice is canceled due to "some shit with the thermostat at Faber". Bitty checks Twitter after texting back, looks up when a bus stops in front of him and spits out a hoard of teenage girls. He types out a tweet about the impressively high sound level they achieve together, then watches them walk down the sidewalk until they pass a group of equally loud guys, and then he very quickly turns his attention back to his phone, because one of those guys is, without a doubt, Kent Parson, and Bitty does _not_ want to be caught staring. Not that he expects Kent to recognize him after meeting him once, a year ago, but still - he _could_ , and Bitty’s already embarrassed himself enough in front of him. 

He does a search on Kent’s name, just because, and finds a bunch of gifs from the afternoon's Aces at Bruins game. Watches Kent score the same goal again and again and again until he starts feeling like _he’s_ being watched, and when he hears Kent’s voice saying “-- somewhere else? That place is _rank_ , trust me”, he looks up. Kent gives him a little nod as he walks by, and the expression on his face is kind and curious in a way that throws Bitty off. He wants to see it again. 

"Nice snipe, Parson," he says.

Kent slows. His company keeps walking, except for the guy he was just talking to - Bitty’s pretty sure he’s one of the Aces’ goalies. Kent turns, and if Bitty didn’t know better, he’d think Kent was checking him out.

“You were at the game?” Kent asks.

Bitty shakes his head, holds his phone up.

“Ah,” Kent says. Up close and lit up by the screen, he looks tired. “Thanks, anyway.”

Kent’s teammate looks from Kent to Bitty, and then back to Kent. "You two know each other?"

Kent smirks. “He's my stalker."

Bitty snorts. "As if." He pockets his phone and fishes out his gloves instead. "We have mutual... Uh. A mutual friend.”

“Jack,” Kent explains to his teammate, who looks between them again, nodding.

"I'm Kim, by the way,” he says. “But you can call me Berger. With an e. Not like the food.” He offers his hand to Bitty.

“Oh gosh, of course, where are my manners.” Berger’s leather glove squeaks when Bitty squeezes it. "Eric," he says. "Or. Well. I go by Bitty, most of the time. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise."

"Berger’s turning 25 today," Kent says, bumping his shoulder into Berger’s.

“Yup.” Berger grins, sinks his hands into his coat pockets.

"Oh! Happy birthday," Bitty says. "Must have been extra nice to win today."

"Sure was," Berger says. Nudges Kent with his elbow. "Thanks to this guy keeping his promise to give me a goal as a gift." 

Kent nudges back. “You’re the one who got yourself a shutout.”

Berger grabs Kent’s face and smooches his temple.

Kent eyes him suspiciously. "Oh god, you're drunk already, aren't you?” he says. "We had _two beers_."

“You mean _you_ had two.”

“How many did _you_ have?”

"Didn't we just establish that it's my birthday?" Berger laughs, then turns to Bitty. "So, you doing anything right now?" 

Bitty shrugs. “Not really.”

"Well, you're welcome to join us for a drink. Right, Parser?”

Kent seems a little more hesitant, but says, "Yeah, why not. The more the merrier.”

Well, this is escalating quickly, Bitty thinks. Doesn't tell them he’s not 21 yet, just smiles, says, “Didn’t know you NHLers were so hospitable.”

“It’s good PR,” Kent says. “All we really want is for you to tweet about how nice and generous we are.”

“How do you know I tweet?”

“Maybe _he’s_ the stalker here,” Berger says. “Wouldn't surprise me.”

Kent raises an eyebrow. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“You have an obsessive personality.” 

“Fuck you," Kent says, smiling. "And also, you know, _birds of feather_ ,” he adds, pushing Berger’s grinning face away from him before he turns back to Bitty. “You just showed me a gif on Twitter, no?”

Bitty’s glad he’s wearing a hat, considering how hot his ears feel. “Oh. Right.” 

Kent smirks. “Anyway. We should get going.” He fiddles with his scarf, adjusts his collar. “You coming or not?”

Bitty gnaws on the plastic lid of his mug. Takes a sip out of it. The smart thing to do would be to take the next bus back to Samwell and go to bed early. But drunk Aces? _Drunk Kent Parson_? That’ll be a story to tell the grandkids. He can be sensible later. 

 

 

Jack helps him out with the abundant pile of dishes that the Haus Christmas dinner has produced. It’s the first time they’re alone in a room since Bitty was in Providence, and it’s like he’s back where he was a year ago: trying not to read into looks and touches, trying to pretend that small talk is enough, trying to stow away his pathetic longing. Except now, he has to restrain himself for other reasons, and he _should_ be able to, but it’s like a compulsion, when he presses his arm to Jack’s, rubs his cheek on his shoulder. Jack lifts his hands up from the sink, doesn't seem to notice that he's dripping water on his socks. Bitty gives him the towel he's holding, and Jack dries his hands slowly, scouring Bitty’s face. “We shouldn’t,” he says, but yields right away when Bitty reaches for him. Bitty hates them both when they kiss.

 

They don’t undress, don’t get under the covers, don’t even bother to remove the bedspread. It’s so dark in Bitty’s room that he can barely see Jack, and they’ve always been better at talking at night, but it’s as if neither of them has anything to say now. Maybe there aren’t any words for this, Bitty thinks. Falls asleep with his hand on top of Jack’s on his stomach.

 

Jack stirs awake when Bitty comes back from the kitchen, and they eat breakfast sitting on the floor in his room.

“How’ve you been,” Jack asks. 

"Honestly? A big, hot, occasionally blubbering mess.”

Jack frowns, scrapes at nothing on the rim of his mug.

“What about you?”

Jack gives his coffee a miserable look. “I don’t know.”

In Jack-speak, “I don’t know” can mean anything from “it’s been a rough day” to “I literally feel like I’m dying”, and Bitty’s not sure he wants to know where Jack falls on that spectrum right now. 

“It’ll get better,” he says, because he knows he'll regret it if he doesn't say _something_. “You know it will. It has before, right? Every time.”

“Yeah, I know. I just… Feel like it’s gonna stick this time.”

“You said that last time, too. And it didn’t.”

Jack rubs a hand over his stubble. “Fuck, you shouldn’t have to --" He sighs, clearly annoyed with himself. "I'm sorry. I'll be okay.”

The door flies open, and for once, Bitty’s actually glad that privacy is a foreign concept in the Haus. 

“You were right, Lards,” Shitty yells over his shoulder. “They’ve got fucking pancakes in here.”

Lardo joins them a moment later, still in her pyjamas. Sinks down beside Bitty and starts a chain reaction of yawns around the room. Bitty hands her his mug. “There’s milk in it,” he says. She sneers, but gulps down the coffee anyway.

Shitty stretches out on the floor and props his head up on Jack’s thigh, starts ripping a pancake into strips that he feeds himself while telling Jack another intricate tale from law school. Lardo throws a quick glance at Jack before she gives Bitty a pointed look and raises her eyebrows. Bitty shakes his head, a tiny movement that only Lardo should notice. “Good,” she says quietly, smiles when Bitty takes the mug back and fills it with fresh coffee for her.


	5. Kent

**2013**

 

They’re paralyzing, the seconds before Kent becomes fully conscious. Before it sinks into him that it’s not true, that Jack’s not dead, that it was just another one of his nightmares. He feels like he should’ve stopped having them by now. Should be over it. That it shouldn’t still be this raw after four years. 

He could get two more hours of sleep before his alarm goes off, but he doesn’t want to risk resuming the dream. Heads out for a run instead. He's much calmer, after, a pleasant thrum spreading from his legs to the rest of his body. But the feeling of having been hollowed out and left behind clings to him throughout the day.

 

 

Every time they see each other, it’s on his initiative, and while Jack may give him all the cold shoulders in the world, may keep him at an arm’s length at all times, he never says no. Never tells Kent to stop. So how could he. 

He’s worried that he's going to fall out of love before Jack finally pulls his head out of his ass and sees that he’s still there. That they could still be. Thinks he might go crazy if all this misery will turn out to be for nothing.

 

 

People have been telling him who he is all his life. Not always in actual words, but they haven't had to. He knows what they want from him anyway, and he knows how to give it to them, how to mold himself into whatever it is they think they’re seeing. It’s not even a choice anymore: has become an automatic response to meeting another person. And it’s useful, this adaptability. Makes everything run smoother, helps him get what and where he wants, protects him from exposure. Makes him marketable. But when there’s no one around to react to him, to give him hints as to who he should be, he doesn’t know who the fuck he is anymore. Not that he ever felt like he had a solid self before this charade of his started getting out of hand, either. But he used to feel like he was someone when he was with Jack, because Jack edited himself too, knew what that looked like, what it meant, and he was never content with getting the altered version of Kent. Wanted what was beyond that. And Kent let him have it: it was the first time he trusted someone with seeing him.

But it’s as if Jack doesn’t even try to, anymore. As if he's ascribed Kent a role that he refuses to question even when Kent contradicts it, convinced that Kent's some kind of antagonist now, that he's only here to agitate him, to remind him of his failures. And Kent gets that Jack’s jealous, that he feels like he’s fallen behind, that there’s a hundred other reasons that have less to do with hockey and more to do with things that are too big and scary to talk about, but Kent wonders if this isn’t also another way for Jack to barricade himself from reality now that he can’t resort to downers and booze anymore.

 

At least Jack’s body still knows him. Still responds to him.

 

Kent’s wrist sears with pain even though Jack barely touches the brace when he grabs Kent's arms and pins him to the bed. He doesn’t say anything about it. Smiles and squirms to make Jack press down harder instead.

 

By the time they come back downstairs, an impromptu party has filled up the first floor with people who Kent assumes are Jack’s teammates. He's recognized almost immediately, and it's hard to feel good about the compliments he gets when he's extremely aware of how tense Jack is beside him.

“I’ll be outside,” Jack says, thrusts the PB&J he’s made into Kent’s hand and walks out of the kitchen. 

It's draining, being around Jack when he's this hostile, but Kent holds back his sigh and keeps his face polite, stays talking to a couple of d-men for a few minutes before he excuses himself and slips out onto the porch. Finds Jack on the steps with his elbows on his knees, resting his head against the pillar beside him, eyes closed. Kent sits down next to him, close enough that their shoulders touch. Can’t think of anything to say that would make either of them feel better, so he just eats the sandwich instead. Watches a group of drunk girls walk over the lawn. One of them throws Jack an amused look as they pass him and Kent on their way into the house. 

“Isn’t coke supposed to like, make you energetic?” she says, once they’re behind Kent’s back.

“ _Jesus_ , Megan, he can _hear_ you, shut up,” another girl says. 

One of them snorts, and at least two of them giggle. They leave the door open. Kent pulls it shut with force.

Jack twitches at the sound, looks up with a jaded smile. “There’s a rumor going around,” he says. “I do a ton of cocaine, apparently.”

“Fucking assholes,” Kent mutters.

“It's -- Whatever. I’m used to it.”

Kent shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have to be.”

Jack snaps a twig off the bush on his right. Peels the dry bark off of it, then breaks it into pieces that he throws onto the grass.

"It’s just a rumor, though,” he says, quietly. 

He looks smaller than someone his size should be able to, and Kent wants to hug him again. But he’s too sad, and he doesn't want Jack to notice.

“Yeah," he says instead, tries to sound reassuring. "I know." 

Jack follows him to his rental. Wraps his arms around himself as he tells Kent to drive safe. Kent would stay if he asked, but Jack never does.

 

He paces around his hotel room. Rolls his shoulders, lifts his arms, stretches his neck. Tries standing still, lying down, sitting up. Can’t seem to get enough air into his lungs whatever he does, feels like there’s something jammed beneath his sternum, cramping his chest, and it’s his own fault, for going to Samwell: he always unravels like this after seeing Jack, and yet, for some stupid fucking reason, he thought it was going to be different this time. At least that’s what he told himself to justify going. 

He gives in after half an hour and takes a double dose of his painkillers. Tucks himself into bed. The starched sheets feel so cool and nice and clean against his skin that he starts crying when the high hits him. He wakes up groggy fifteen hours later, packs his stuff, and leaves for the airport. 

 

 

He goes out to celebrate with the Aces again. Drinks fancy champagne that tastes just as much like piss to him as the cheap ones do, trash-talks Dima for his utter lack of a sense of rhythm, and tries to figure out why there's something familiar about the bartender who, according to Berger, keeps throwing him glances. It doesn’t dawn on him until the guy rolls up his sleeves and reaches up to retie his hair, revealing the tattoo on his forearm - the last time Kent saw it, it was still wrapped in plastic, and Kent had the guy's dick in his mouth. When their eyes meet, Kent puts on a dull expression, pretends not to recognize him.

It’s the first time - as far as he knows - that he’s bumped into someone from his slutty phase. It still dumbfounds him, that he somehow managed to get through it without being outed. Of course, it probably _did_ help that Vegas was even less of a hockey town two years ago, and that all the guys he hooked up with were either wasted or high or both, and that he never took them home with him, never saw the same guy twice, and always left immediately after. He had one exception, though: a pitcher with the 51s who used to come by his place every once in awhile. They didn’t have great chemistry, but it was a safe way for both of them to get laid. Not that that stopped Kent from going out as well.

It’s not like he was insatiably horny, back then. He was just empty, mostly, and at least there was _someone_ inside him when he got fucked. It’s almost laughable to him now, how literal it was.

 

 

**2015**

 

Dima grabs his knee. "Stop, you make me nervous." 

As soon as he lets go, Kent starts bouncing his leg again. Dima rolls his eyes, slides down the couch and throws his feet up on the coffee table, clasping his hands over his stomach. Kent wishes he could soak up some of Dima's calm: he might actually be more skittish now than he was before his own debut, and the Star-Spangled Banner has definitely never felt this agonizingly drawn-out. 

“Chill, Freckles,” Berger says, knocking his elbow against Kent’s. “He’ll be fine.” 

“Yeah yeah yeah,” Kent says. "He’ll be fine. He’ll be great. Yeah.”

It still cuts that Jack didn't even seem to consider Vegas, and it’s insane that they’re on their tenth month of radio silence, but that doesn’t mean Kent’s not proud and relieved and pleased now that Jack is finally where he belongs. He’d probably bawl if he was home alone. Which is kind of why he made sure he wouldn’t be.

 

"You should text him," Berger says, after the game.

Kent crosses his arms and leans back on the couch. Sucks his teeth. “Be the bigger person, huh?” 

“Something like that.”

Dima leans forward and picks Kent’s phone up from the table, drops it in his lap.

“You know you want to,” Berger says.

Kent groans. “Why.”

“Because you’re a big softie.”

“It’s true,” Dima says.

Kent glares at them. “I hate you. You're making me a better person and it's gross.” He writes a quick text and sends it before he has time to change his mind, then mutes his phone and puts it back on the table, screen down. His legs are itching to bounce again, but he presses his heels to the floor. “Happy now?” he says.

"Yes, very much," Dima says. Berger grins triumphantly.

 

 

 

Jack smiles at him when they skate past each other during warm-ups. Mouths a hi. Kent is so surprised that he forgets how to have a face.

 

 

 

 

“Didn’t think you’d remember me.” Bitty pretty much has to shout - it’s late enough that the bar has gone rowdy.

Kent taps his fingers on the counter. “I’m good with faces, I guess,” he says. As if he's forgotten anything from that night. He buys two shots and two beers, slides a bottle and a glass to Bitty even though he hasn’t finished his last drink yet.

Bitty raises his eyebrows. "You tryna get me drunk?"

"I probably would,” Kent says, “if you weren’t already.”

Bitty sloshes the crushed ice around in his glass. "What can I say? Y’all are very generous.” He lifts the straw out, licks it, and downs the rest of the drink. Switches it for the beer.

“Told you so.” Kent knocks back his shot and draws a laugh out of Bitty when he frowns at the burn. He wipes at the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “Oh, hey, speaking of generous -- Berger’s gone and convinced himself that you and I are gonna hook up, so if you need a place to crash… He offered to give up the room to us.”

Bitty looks skeptical, presses the mouth of his bottle to his lower lip and laughs. “Y’know… Some of the things he’s said to me in the last thirty minutes are making a _lot_ more sense now.”

“Yeah, well, he's fucking ecstatic.” Kent shakes his head and smiles. “He won’t stop yammering about how I’m finally gonna get laid on his account. Might as well make him think I am so he’ll shut up about it.”

Bitty sips his beer, seems to consider this. “Can't say I'm thrilled by the thought of taking the night bus...” He narrows his eyes at Kent. “You wouldn’t like, actually try to seduce me or anything, would you?"

"What, you want me to?" Kent cocks an eyebrow and laughs.

Bitty presses a hand to his forehead. "I can’t believe I actually asked you that. I’m gonna die when I remember this tomorrow. Please stop looking at me now.” He picks up his shot and squeezes his eyes shut as he downs it.

 

Dima’s telling Bitty about his years in the KHL when Kent nudges Bitty’s foot under the table, catches his eye when he turns his head, and winks at him. Just to fuck with him. Bitty puts his head in his hands and laughs so hard that Dima gets a concerned look on his face.

 

Bitty sways a little on the sidewalk as he pulls his gloves on. "Can I ask you something?" he says. "About Jack?"

Kent shrugs. “Sure.”

“Do you still like him?”

Kent barely needs both hands to count the people that know about him and Jack, and he’s never talked about Jack to anyone who knows him. But Bitty does. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t wave the question away. That, and the amount of shots he’s had. Which he definitely needs both hands to count.

“I don’t know." He heaves out a sigh. "Sometimes I think I’m over him, but… It’s like he’s my fucking Achilles heel or something.”

“Oh,” Bitty says.

They walk in silence the rest of the way to the hotel. Once they're in the elevator, Bitty glances at Kent and adds, "That's a really long time to be in love with someone."

“You're telling me.” Kent huffs. “What about you. You like him, right?”

"Yeah." Bitty takes his wool hat off, clasps it in his hands. “Wish I didn't, though.”

 

Bitty peels himself out of his outerwear and drops it all on the only chair in the room. Kent lets his coat fall to the floor. "He's not very easy to like," he says.

"Guess not."

"It's kind of like... Uh. Trying to cut your fingernails with an axe.”

"Stupid and self-destructive?" Bitty says, amused.

Kent snorts. “I was going for 'frustrating', but... Yeah. It’s not like I’ve ever had much self-preservation when it comes to him."

“But it’s not really his fault." Bitty looks sad. "Or. Some of it is.” He sighs. “Whatever. I don’t really wanna talk about it.”

“Yeah, let’s not.” 

Kent lays a hand on Bitty's neck in an attempt at a comforting gesture, and Bitty dumps his head on Kent's shoulder. He’s not sure how long they do nothing but stand there, he’s so dazed. And sleepy. But everything spins too fast if he closes his eyes.

“I like your cologne,” Bitty says. Kent can hear him smiling. “You smell like a rich boy.”

Kent steps back so that Bitty has to lift his head. Keeps his hand on Bitty’s neck when he presses their lips together on a whim. Bitty opens his mouth at once, and for a second, Kent wonders if Jack’s ever done this. If he and Bitty ever happened. Realizes he hasn't asked because he doesn't want to know.

Bitty laughs when they part. “I thought you were joking earlier.”

“I was," Kent says. Doesn't step away.

 

 

**2016**

 

They lose to the Falcs in overtime.

When Kent comes out of the visitors' locker room, Jack's in the corridor outside, still wearing half his gear. He flinches at the sound of the door.

"Hey," he says, a little hoarse. Clears his throat. "You leaving right away?"

"Yeah, we're off to Buffalo,” Kent says.

Jack nods, and they smile at each other. It’s awkward. Kent doesn’t remember the last time he’s felt awkward around Jack.

"So." Kent raises his eyebrows.

Jack shrugs. "Just wanted to say hi. It's been a while." 

The door opens behind Kent, flooding the corridor with sweat-damp air. Someone bumps into his shoulder. It’s Berger. Of course it is. Who else would it be.

"Fraternizing with the enemy?" he says. Grins as he strolls past them, pulling his suit jacket on. "You got some mad skill, bro," he says to Jack over his shoulder. "And not just on the ice, I hear." He laughs at his own joke before he disappears around the corner.

Jack frowns deeply, and Kent rolls his eyes. "Don't mind him."

“Um. Okay. Well, I should let you… I should go shower up. It's good to see you, though."

Kent smiles. “You too.” 

Jack starts walking down the corridor. It doesn't make Kent feel as desperate as it used to, watching him leave, but he still wants to keep him there a little longer. “Hey, Zimms," he says.

The floor squeaks when Jack twists around.

“See you in the playoffs?”

Jack rubs his neck and grins. “I hope so.”

 

 

He tries to kill them, the what ifs and the if onlys. The maybe whens. But they're insidious. Relentless.


	6. Jack

**2015**

 

He does his best to keep in mind that it’s normal, expected even, to be overwhelmed in the midst of so much change, but it's hard not to feel crazy when his inability to cope with even the smallest of disruptions while under pressure becomes painfully obvious within a few weeks of having cleaned out his room in the Haus. 

Fear has never been a very good motivator, for him - if that were the case, he'd never lose momentum - and it's harrowing, being up in the air, not knowing when or where he’ll land, if there’ll be any ground left to stand on when he does. Whether he'll still have feet. But he's worked his fingers to the bone for every last inch that's brought him closer to this point in his life, and running on pure stubbornness has become second nature to him along the way. He can do it again if he must.

 

 

Bittle goes to bed earlier than him, leaving him in the kitchen with Lardo, Ransom, Holster, and a freshly baked caramel pecan pie. He hasn’t fallen asleep by the time Jack joins him, though: rolls over to face Jack instead of the wall as soon as Jack slides in next to him under the comforter. 

“Hi,” he whispers. Wrinkles his nose. “Your feet are freezing.”

“Sorry.” Jack slips his hand into the sleeve of Bittle’s washed-out t-shirt. The cotton is so thin and smooth that Jack can barely feel it on his skin.

Bittle’s eyes roam over his face. 

“What,” Jack says.

“Why do I keep feeling like you're somewhere else.”

Jack doesn't answer. Isn't sure how to, when reassuring Bittle that he _is_ there would be nothing short of telling a lie. Instead, he lifts his arm so Bittle can settle under it.

"I don’t like it,” Bittle says. “We’re already apart most of the time.”

Jack swallows around the lump in his throat. He doesn’t like this, either. Doesn’t want to be difficult, to fall short, to stack obstacles. To be the reason Bittle looks so tired. But he’s tired, too. Exhausted. Has been, since the preseason started. And he’s beginning to feel more and more like being with Bittle requires a level of personhood from him that he can’t attain. Can't find in him. In theory, he knows this feeling is just a result of his brain playing tricks on him again, but that doesn’t make it go away. Doesn’t make the distance it creates between them any less pervasive or tangible.

“I don’t mean to," he says. "I’m not doing it on purpose.”

“Didn’t say you were.” Bittle gives him a weak smile. 

Jack kisses him just below his right eyebrow. Kisses the bridge of his nose, his cheek, then nudges his chin up to kiss his lips. Bittle closes his eyes and lets out a long sigh. Grabs Jack by the crook of his knee and pulls his thigh over his hip, hauling him closer until they’re all but squashed together.

“I just wish I didn’t miss you even when you’re here.”

 

 

Two weeks later, Jack watches Bittle watching the swans that slowly glide over the surface of the Providence River, and despite the huge knitted scarf he’s wrapped around half his head, Bittle's cheeks and nose have been pinched red by the wind, and he's so pretty that Jack wants to either kiss him or throw him in the water. It's fucked up, he thinks, that both these impulses seem equally stupid to him.

He’d forgotten what it’s like, having to actively hide a relationship. The elevated hyper-vigilance, the sense of invalidation, the compartmentalization. The constant holding back. The days when rage shoots through him at the sight of other couples, at how nonchalantly they display their intimacy in public, blind to the magnitude of it. He wonders if he’ll ever know what that feels like. _Wants_ to know. But merely imagining the weight of what he’d have to do to find out makes his shoulders ache.

 

 

He's met with a text from Kent when he checks his phone after his first game. It’s nothing special, really, nothing extraordinary, only a few words, two short sentences, but Kent wouldn’t bother with a gesture like this - not for Jack, anyway, not after what went down last year - just to be polite, so he takes it as a sign that Kent might not hate him after all. That they might not be completely in ruins.

 

 

“You got any insider tips on how to take on Parson?” Riq says, sitting next to Jack on the plane to Vegas, his phone in one hand, half-empty bag of peanut M&Ms in the other.

“Uhhh.” Jack frowns. “You’ve got more experience playing against him than I have.”

Riq huffs. “Oh, right. Good point.” He pours the rest of the M&Ms onto his tongue and taps at his phone while he chews. “I kind of wish I wasn’t a d-man now that they’ve put him and Volodin on the same line. I mean, Parson was a goddamn enigma on the ice as was, but now…” Riq winces. “They’re so good I hate 'em.”

Yale laughs and turns around in his seat. “Geez, Riq, way to pep talk the rookie.” 

Jack shakes his head and smiles. “I don’t mind.” He really doesn’t: is so nervous that it’s tipped over into repose.

“Yeah, Zimmermann’s a big boy, he can deal,” Riq says. Takes the empty candy bag and crumples it up into a little ball that he throws at Yale, hitting him right between the eyes.

 

 

He fantasizes about it. How easy it would be, getting his hands on benzos. Some Valium or Serax or Klonopin or - his favorite - Xanax. He probably wouldn’t even need much, after this many years without. A pill or two could do it, if he added a few beers to the mix. And then the tension would leak out of his limbs, and the sharp corners of his mind would soften, and his lethargy would shift from smothering to peaceful, and everything would be quiet and kind and nothing would bother him. It would be like slowly wading into a pool of lukewarm water, all contours dissolving.

There are moments when he wants this more desperately than he wants his name engraved on the Stanley Cup.

 

 

He knows Bittle would run himself into the ground for him. That’s the problem.

When Jack tells him, Bittle looks emptier than Jack has ever seen a person look before, and the guilt sticks like tar to his lungs. But it's still better than the alternative. It has to be.

 

 

His head is on the verge of exploding, and he’d rather spend all his off-hours curled up in bed, but he forces himself to take walks with Vlad and his beagle as often as he can, well aware that he’s better off not allowing himself to hole up in his apartment. Sometimes he even lets Vlad coax him into hanging out with him and Yale and some of the other guys whose spare time isn't tied up by family, joining them to dinner or to the movies or to play Fifa at Riq's or pool at some dive bar or whatever else they've thought up that particular day.

Jack has a feeling Vlad knows a thing or two about having a bad brain, because he never tells Jack to cheer up like the others do from time to time. Never expects Jack to enjoy himself. It's just a bonus to him if Jack happens to.

 

 

As for letting things go, Jack’s never had much self-restraint.

He’s relieved that Shitty and Lardo both need a ride to Boston, wouldn’t want to be alone with his thoughts, and he’s equally relieved that neither of them asks him about Bittle. He doesn’t expect Shitty to - Shitty knows they'll talk once Jack’s ready - but Lardo tends to be more confrontational, and it’s hard to miss that she’s not very happy with him. Which is neither unwarranted nor strange, seeing as she lives down the hall from Bittle now, and is more than likely to have been his confidante through all of this.

Jack knows it does nothing to redeem him that Bittle at least knew he was coming, that he could've asked Jack to stay away, because Bittle would never have done that - would never have refused Jack one of the few opportunities he has to see his friends, even if it meant hurting himself - and it doesn’t change the fact that all Jack’s done is stir up something that should’ve been left alone. Bittle was the one who initiated, who kissed him first, there's no denying that, but Jack should’ve made sure they never ended up in a situation wherein that was a possible outcome to begin with. Shouldn’t have spiked his own eggnog earlier that night, shouldn't have sat next to Bittle on the couch, _definitely_ shouldn’t have offered to help him with the dishes.

Jack can't help but wonder if the turmoil he feels bears any resemblance to what Kent might have felt after visiting him. If he’s made Bittle feel the way Kent used to make _him_ feel.

 

He picks his parents up from Logan before driving back to Providence, and once he’s let them into his apartment, he drives over to George's to pick up Tetris as well - Vlad left for Washington early the same morning, and while Jack's the one who’s dog sitting over the holidays, George and Sandra offered to take care of her until he came back from Samwell.

“I don’t think she likes us very much,” Sandra says, disappearing into the kitchen after giving him a hug.

Jack squats to click the leash onto Tetris' collar. “She barked at me like crazy in the beginning, the first time I had her." He smiles up at Sandra when she returns to the hall. "She'll come around."

Sandra smiles back, sets down a plastic bag on the floor beside him. "Here's all her stuff." Tetris plunges her snout into the bag right away, grunts indignantly when she can’t reach the food.

“Thanks,” Jack says, straightening up just as George comes out of the bathroom with her hair wrapped in a turban. 

“Jack! I thought I heard a familiar voice,” she says. “How was your trip?”

Jack makes a face. “Might have been a better idea to skip it, actually.”

George gives him a searching look. “You alright?"

"Yeah." Jack shrugs. “It is what it is," he says, not wanting to elaborate any further.

"Some things tend to be," George says thoughtfully, watching Tetris lose interest in the bag and scuttle to the door.

Jack's not entirely sure what George means by that, but nods all the same. "I should probably go," he says, waving towards Tetris who's eyeing him with anticipation. “We're still on for dinner on Sunday, though, right?"

“You bet," Sandra says.

"Good." Jack smiles. "My dad promised to make Tourtière.”

 

 

 

Jack looks out over the naked trees in India Point Park. Gathers up the excess saliva in his mouth and spits on the frosty trail in front of him. “I almost relapsed,” he says, tightening his fist around the handle on Tetris’ leash until the leather strap digs into his palm. “Or I sort of wanted to.” It’s a relief to finally say it out loud: finally end the lengthy and ambivalent debate he’s had with himself on whether he should or not.

“When was this?” Bob's voice is carefully neutral.

“About a month ago.”

“After what happened with Eric?”

Jack nods. “But it wasn’t just that.”

“Mm," Bob says. "It's been a rough fall for you, hasn't it? You've had a lot going on."

Jack speeds up, runs ahead for a bit so he can blink the water out of his eyes without his dad noticing. “I don’t want to scare you,” he says, when Bob's caught up with him and they’re back in step again.

“You are, a little. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear about it. On the contrary.” They reach the end of the park and turn to run back the same way they came. “I’m glad you told me. I hope you know you always can.”

“I guess I forget sometimes.”

“I’ll keep reminding you.”

Jack smiles. Slows down a little: Tetris has started to lag behind.

“Should I tell maman.”

“It's your choice, but I would, if I were you,” Bob says. “She’ll worry anyway, and she wants to know what’s happening with you.”

“Okay,” Jack says. “Maybe, uh… Maybe we could all talk? Tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

They walk the rest of the way home, letting Tetris set the pace.

“You’re stronger than any person your age should have to be,” Bob says, while they wait for Tetris to finish sniffing at one last lamp post outside Jack's building before they go inside. “Than _any_ person should have to be.” He grips Jack’s shoulder and gives it a solid squeeze. “I’m impressed by you every day. You’re an incredibly resilient person. You might not feel like it, but you are.”

 

 

**2016**

 

Kent's family never treated him like an outsider in their company, always went about everything as if he was a natural part of it, and that hasn't changed. But it's been ages since Jack's met them, and he's barely seen Kent, either, so suddenly being wedged between him and his mom, sitting face-to-face with his dad and two of his brothers, has Jack keyed up in a way he doubts he ever was around them even as a teenager: he drops his fork at least four times, eats his lunch all too fast, almost spills water down his chin. Keeps stumbling over his own words. 

He barely speaks to Kent, though. Partly because Kent gets wrapped up in a conversation with his youngest brother, and Jack ends up talking almost solely to Andrea, partly because things are still more than a little stiff between them. But it's enough, for now, just being here with him. Getting a chance to discover some of the things that are different about him. To recognize that he's still so unmistakably _him_. There’s something cathartic about it, too, that they can be like this now: that their forearms can lie next to each other on the table without the touch being overly charged or grating; that his first impulse when their eyes meet is neither to challenge nor look away, but to smile. 

Jack excuses himself once it's time for coffee: his game starts earlier than Kent's, and he's in dire need of a nap before he has to leave for the arena.

Kent pulls his sweater over his head and follows Jack out of the restaurant. "I'm glad you came," he says, balancing on the curb.

"Me too,” Jack says. “I'm buying next time, though."

"Oh yeah? We'll make sure to go somewhere real expensive, then."

Jack zips up his jacket and laughs. "Fine by me." 

"Guess it'll be a while before we'll be in the same place again."

Jack nods. “But we could... I don't know, in the meantime? We could have dinner over Skype or something. I used to do that with -- Um. I mean. If you want to."

Kent gives him a curious look. "Sure."

"Okay."

"Great."

They both hesitate for a second, but then Kent leans in for a hug. Jack holds him tightly until he steps away to hail a cab for Jack.

"Kick some Ranger ass for me tonight, will ya?" Kent says.

"As long as you sink Brooklyn for me."

Kent grins and holds out his hand. "Deal."

 

 

It takes him two weeks to work up the nerve to look up phone numbers, and another three to actually make the call, and as soon as he sits down in the armchair in his new therapist’s office, he starts shivering. But he didn’t chicken out: he got himself here, did this for himself. And that’s the important part.

 

 

He carries his laptop from the kitchen table to his bed. Sits down and crosses his legs, angles the screen and flicks on the bedside lamp so Kent can see him better. Kent’s on his couch in Vegas, and they were just laughing at an anonymous Instagram account one of his teammates has found, exclusively dedicated to selfies Kent’s taken with kids, all captioned “Hot Dad”. But Kent’s staring absently at something behind the screen now, face pensive.

“What’re you thinking about?” Jack asks.

"I don't know." Kent moves his eyes back to the screen, but doesn’t focus on it. Shakes his head. “I still fucking wish we could play on the same team again," he says, sounding reluctant.

Jack picks lint from his socks, gathers it in a tiny heap on the edge of the keyboard. “So do I.”

Kent looks straight into the camera, his eyes biting into Jack. “Really? Cause it’s like -- Ever since the draft.” Kent sighs. “I’ve had this feeling that you don’t wanna remember. Or that you only remember the bad stuff.”

“Oh. Well. I think -- You're not exactly wrong," Jack admits. "But --"

“And you know, I kinda get that, actually?" Kent interrupts him. "Things were seriously messed up back then. But _we_ weren’t. For the most part. But maybe you didn’t see it that way.”

“No, I did, but. Remembering the good stuff just... It used to make me feel like shit. So I needed to forget to keep myself together. Or I thought I needed to. But it's not like that anymore."

Kent frowns.

"And I still missed you all the time."

Kent rubs the heel of his hand over his forehead, shaking his head again. “Fuck you.” He barks out a laugh. “Do you know how long I’ve waited for you to say that.”

Jack feels like he's been kicked in the gut. “I’ve never said it before, have I.” 

“Nope.”

“I’m such an idiot.”

“Pretty much."

“Saying I’m sorry seems a little meager," Jack says. Takes a deep breath. "But I'm really sorry.”

“It _is_ a little meager.” Kent tilts his head back against the pillow behind his neck. “But it's better than nothing.” His voice sounds weird with his throat stretched out. He stays like that for a while before he shifts to lie down instead. Starts smiling halfway through a yawn when his cat jumps up next to him. He scratches it behind its ears until it settles beside him, then moves to scratch its belly instead. Jack can hear it purring.

“You look like you’re spooning,” he says.

Kent nuzzles his nose into the fluffy mane around the cat's neck. “We do it all the time,” he says. Smirks at Jack. “Best boyfriend I’ve ever had.”

Jack laughs. “Yeah, I always had a feeling I wasn’t hairy enough for you.”

“True,” Kent says. “ _And_ he’s more hygienic than you.”

 

 

They were both frayed threads when they were younger, trying to reach the future through the eye of a needle. It’s taken Jack a long time to realize he wasn't the only one who couldn't fit through without splitting. 

 

 

The Falconers make it to the playoffs as a wild card, but are knocked out early in the first round. The defeat burns like hell, but it doesn’t crush Jack: learning how to refrain from blaming himself when it's uncalled for is one of the things he's been working on with his therapist during the past few months, and even though he still has to fight the urge to find fault with himself, losing _has_ become a little bit easier. And a little goes a long way for him, these days.

 

 

“Fuck the Stars, eh?” he says, when Kent calls him the day after the Aces lose to Dallas in game seven in the second round.

Kent snorts. “Now _that_ would make a fine consolation prize.”

Jack's pretty sure Kent knows he's rolling his eyes even though Kent can't see him. “You doing okay?”

Kent makes a displeased sound. "I'll live,” he says. “Anyway, I'm actually calling 'cause I'm at the post office and I need your new address."

“What for?”

"Your birthday present.”

"Isn't it a bit early for that?"

"Nah." Kent huffs out a laugh. "It's last year's. It's long overdue."

 

The parcel is delivered to Jack's door a couple days later. The gift - a book by Robert Capa - isn’t wrapped, and there’s no card. Just a bright blue post-it stuck to the title page. It makes Jack smile, and not only because Kent’s handwriting still highly resembles a third grader’s. He peels the note off the page and fastens it to the wall beside his bed. Reads the book over the course of two days before he texts Kent: _Yeah, I’d rather mope over there._


	7. Kent

**2016**

 

"Didn't go very well for the Allies here.”

"No?" Kent frowns. "Why not?"

"Germans had the terrain in their favor,” Jack says. “And the troops barely had any covering fire cause so many of their DD tanks were launched too far out and sank. Plus, the tide and the wind caused a lot of units to be put ashore way off from their assigned targets. Some of them got scattered, too, or lost their leaders. It got chaotic pretty fast.”

"But they won,” Kent says, “right? D-day was a big deal, I remember _that_ much from school.”

"Yeah, they managed to get further up and attack from behind, eventually. Got themselves a two-kilometer bridgehead by the end of the day. Thousands of casualties, though.”

Kent squats and grabs a handful of sand, sifts it through his fingers as he looks around: the beach stretches far to both sides, flanked by cliffs, and in front of him, the sea chews lazily at the shoreline, the water a bluish grey under the overcast sky. 

He smiles when Jack trains his camera on him. He looks so... relaxed. The lines of his shoulders soft under his windbreaker, his slightly misshapen sweatpants and three-day scruff making him look charmingly unkempt. They're both deadass tired after a rough season and respectively disappointing playoff stints - the lingering jet lag doesn't help, either - but it's not all bad: at least it has them on the same wavelength. 

"I was actually expecting this place to be a lot uglier,” Jack says. “That it would show more. The war. But it’s really nice here.”

“Yeah.” Kent stands up, rubs his hands together to wipe the sand off. “It's bizarre that a ton of people died here and it still gets to be this pretty." 

“But don’t you think there’s something comforting about that.”

“I don’t know.” Kent catches Jack’s eyes, rests in them for a second. “Maybe.”

They stroll along the beach until the tide chases them up the shore.

 

 

"What’s next, the Mona Lisa?” Kent asks, once they’re done making fun of the Greek sculptures' dicks, and he’s satisfied his need to publicly embarrass Jack by loudly proclaiming that someone should carve _his_ ass into marble. 

“I already know what she looks like,” Jack says, the flush on his cheeks starting to fade.

“We’re _tourists_ , Jack. Embrace it.”

 

It's packed with people in the hall, but Kent grabs Jack’s wrist - not that he needs to, but it’s a sufficient excuse to touch him, so he goes for it, tries not to think too much about why he wants to, or how it doesn’t seem to bother Jack in the slightest - and pulls him along as he squeezes through the crowd.

"I thought it was gonna be at least a little cool to see it, but it's just like --” Kent shrugs theatrically, makes a bored sound. “She sorta looks like you, though."

Jack gives him an incredulous look. “Now you’re just making things up.”

"Come on.” Kent gives the painting a nod. “That’s a classic Zimmermann smile."

 

 

Jack hunts down band-aids for Kent - they walked so much the day before that he had to buy emergency flip flops at the end of it so his shoes wouldn't chafe the skin off his heels - but other than that, they take time off from vacationing and stay in, window thrown open to let in the mild breeze and the murmur of traffic from eleven stories below. They eat crêpes with fruit and Nutella in bed, and Jack reads while Kent watches How to Get Away with Murder on his tablet. 

He dozes off after a couple episodes, wakes up with his fists knotted and Jack looking down at him from where he's propped up against the headboard, book closed in his lap, thumb caught somewhere in the middle of it, marking where he’s left off.

“Morning,” Kent mumbles. Groans as he rolls over on his back and stretches. There’s a dull ache in his jaw when he yawns: one of the downsides to napping unintentionally is not having his nightguard in to keep him from grinding his teeth.

"It's almost eight,” Jack says. He picks up a brochure from the nightstand beside him, tucks it in the book before putting it away and sliding down next to Kent. Then he shifts a little further down, turns and slings an arm over Kent's hips. Lays his head on Kent’s stomach. 

He flinches the first time Kent combs his fingers through his hair, but then he goes slack. Kent drifts off again, but not into sleep. Keeps touching Jack’s hair. It’s thicker than he remembers it. Coarser. 

“I never thought we’d actually end up here,” Jack says, after what feels like both three minutes and three hours.

Kent wonders if he means here as in Europe, or if he’s referring to a whole other kind of here. Maybe here means everything. All of it. It doesn’t really matter, though, because whichever way, Kent instantly feels like he has to say it: if only just this once, he needs to acknowledge it, needs to let Jack know it still hangs over him. “You almost died.”

“Almost.” Jack presses his face into Kent’s belly, breathes in through his nose. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

“Wasn’t your fault.”

Kent sighs. “I wanted someone else to notice so bad. _Anyone_.” He wills his voice not to thicken. “I couldn’t make myself rat you out cause I knew you’d hate me. But I wish I had. I _should’ve_. It was fucking selfish of me not to. And it’s not like you didn’t end up hating me anyway.”

“I never hated you.”

“I doubt that’s true."

“Okay, so maybe I hated you a little. But I never blamed you for what happened.” Jack lifts his head and gives Kent a long look. “And I really don't want you to, either,” he says, then lays back down.

Kent wants to touch Jack's face, but it feels too intimate. He slides his hand to Jack's neck instead, settles there. It’s so quiet, suddenly, that Kent can hear his own eyelids click when he blinks.

“I don’t want us to not know each other ever again.”

“Yeah, I’d rather not repeat that one,” Kent says.

“I just keep feeling like I bring people down.”

“So you’d rather stay away? Be alone?”

“It’s easier, sometimes.”

“You think you’re protecting people by shutting them out,” Kent says. 

“I -- Yeah.”

“But you’re robbing them of you and sabotaging yourself while you’re at it.”

“You sound like my therapist.”

“No, I sound like _my_ therapist,” Kent says. “I’m just paraphrasing.”

“You have a -- They said that about _me_?”

“No. But I’m guessing our shit overlaps when it comes to this.”

Kent can feel Jack’s smile through his shirt. “Who woulda thought.”

“You know what else she said? That I should quit caffeine because it makes my anxiety worse.”

“Hah. Oh no.”

“I told her she was being needlessly rude.”

“When I came out of rehab I only had chamomile tea for almost five months. No coffee. Not a drop.”

“That's horrifying.”

“Right?” Jack snorts. “No wonder I was so depressed.”

 

 

They have an hour to kill before their dinner reservation, so they pop into a tiny jazz café on their way to the restaurant. It looks like there might be a band on later, but for now, the speakers are pouring out recorded standards. They sit down at the bar, order lentebier and search TripAdvisor for things to do in Amsterdam.

“My mom loves this song,” Kent says, when he recognizes the opening notes of You Go to My Head. "She had a major Billie Holiday phase when I was like, thirteen."

“What if we just --” Jack smiles, jerks his head towards the patch of empty floor a little further into the bar.

“You wanna dance? Are you serious?”

Jack chugs the rest of his drink. Nods. "Why not," he says, sounding like he has at least ten reasons as to why not burning on the tip of his tongue.

"Okay," Kent says. Slides off his bar stool.

He lifts one of his hands to Jack’s back, holds his hand in the other. Jack bends his neck and presses his cheek to Kent’s, lightly. “I feel like I’m gonna shit myself, I’m so nervous,” he says.

Kent chuckles. "I feel ya."

He peers over Jack's shoulder. Most of the other customers pay them no mind, but a few of them are watching. They’re not harsh looks, and he doesn’t feel unsafe - can't see any phones or cameras directed at them - but he still has an onset of adrenaline. Still feels like this isn’t meant for them, that it's a lie. A pipe dream.

He's never really understood why it's called the closet when it feels like a fucking cage.

 

He doesn't usually go for red wine, but he’s unfocused enough that he doesn't notice how fast he's drinking until he starts feeling sleepy: wine always makes him sleepy. Jack, on the other hand, has barely touched his glass.

"You didn’t like it?"

"No, it's great, but... I’d get drunk like that." Jack snaps his fingers. "And, uh. You know how I get.” 

“And you don’t want that?”

Jack’s face goes tight. “Do you?” 

"Would it be bad if I did?

“You think that’s where this is going?”

“This dinner?”

“No, I mean. This trip. This --” Jack gestures between them.

“Do _you_?”

“I asked first.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Jack scowls. "I'm confused."

Their waiter shows up, picks up their emptied starter plates, and disappears again.

“Confused about what?” Kent says.

"I don't know." Jack straightens his back and sighs. “Can we talk about this later."

“Sure.” Kent spins his glass on the table cloth. Lets himself sound bitter. “But don’t diss your wine because of me, okay? We both know you're perfectly capable of resisting me even when you’re drunk.”

 

 

They don't talk. Kent doesn't push it. 

He's so tired of pushing.

 

 

A dismal charge simmers between them during their entire stay in Hamburg, and once they’re in Copenhagen, Jack’s so cranky that he does little else than glare at everyone and everything, while Kent is constantly hungry and keeps getting moodier by the hour, and it all escalates into an inane argument that ends with Kent leaving their room without a word because he’s fucking sick of Jack and needs to not be around him until he’s calm enough that he won’t say something he’ll regret.

He takes the elevator down and walks out of the hotel, keeps going until he has no clue where he is. Has an urge to do something reckless, something potentially mildly destructive. It’s not a great way of coping, but he needs patience to wheedle himself out of it, and his reserves are empty for the time being. He briefly considers calling someone, but his battery’s almost dead. He uses the last of it to look up the nearest gay bar instead.

 

He gets a double tequila shot in him, flirts with a curly-haired dude with sharp brown eyes and lashes so long they almost look fake. Doesn’t have to work for long before they’re making out in a corner on the dance floor. It's hot, and it's _hot_ , his shirt's sticking to his back and soaked through at his armpits, and he has to wipe at his forehead to keep beads of sweat from trickling down his face. He asks the guy if he has a condom, drags him to the men's room and blows him in one of the stalls. It feels amazing when he pulls Kent’s hair, but once he’s come and starts touching Kent through his jeans, Kent pushes him off, gently, says “Thanks”, and slips away, the impulse that brought him there having dwindled. He finds himself a cab and rides back to the hotel. Is vaguely nauseous, but relieved. Sedate. Just as he knew he'd be. 

 

It's late, but Jack's still up when Kent comes in. He's brushing his teeth and doesn't respond to Kent's "Hi", but his eyes dart from Kent’s hair to his mouth to the stains on his knees to his hand gripping the can of Coke he takes out of the minibar to rinse the taste of latex off his tongue.

“Don’t --” Kent stalls when Jack’s eyes land on his. Realizes Jack’s not judging him. That it’s something else. “You’re jealous,” he says. Sounds way more smug than he feels.

Jack walks past him into the bathroom. Kent hears him spit, hears the tap running for a few seconds, the snap when Jack closes the plastic cover over the head of his toothbrush. He comes out, sits down on the bed. Looks at Kent’s lips for so long that they start itching.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it,” Kent says.

Jack clears his throat. “I didn’t say anything.”

Kent stares at him. Unclasps his watch, tosses it onto the TV stand. Starts unbuttoning his shirt. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

 

He dries his hair with a towel, pulls on one of the fluffy white bath robes that hang beside the sink. Turns the light off in the bathroom.

Jack's still sitting on the edge of the bed. “We’re being idiots again," he says, mouth curving into a tired smile.

Kent kicks softly at his shin. “Scoot back a little.”

Jack shifts, and Kent settles between his thighs. Wraps his legs around Jack’s hips. Jack sweeps his thumb over the scrape - a souvenir from a game-seven high stick - that’s scarring on Kent’s right cheek bone. They lick their lips at the same time, and it makes them both laugh.

"Are we really doing this."

"It doesn't have to be a mistake." Jack looks worried, but his voice doesn't waver. "But if you feel like it is --"

"I don't." Kent slips his hands under Jack's shirt, heaves out another laugh. "At least not right now."

"Okay. That's..." Jack shudders when Kent scrapes his nails over his sides. "Mhm."

He loosens the belt around Kent's waist, pushes the robe off his shoulders. Covers them with his palms instead. Slides his hands down Kent’s chest, slowly, leaves them pressed to his skin, low on his stomach. The touch radiates through him: it's in his thighs, his dick, his spine, his neck, his scalp, his arms. His fingers go numb with it.

He takes Jack's shirt off and wraps his arms around him, pulls him closer. Jack moves his hands around to Kent’s back, moves them all over it, and Kent closes his eyes, could sink through the bedding. He holds onto Jack’s shoulder blades, finds his mouth with his own, and it’s easy, they know how to do this, know how to do each other, but it’s curious, at the same time, finally feels like something more than a way to uphold a connection that's failing.

“Wait,” Jack says, breaking off the kiss. “Did you set an alarm for tomorrow?”

“Fuck, no, I forgot." Kent's hands fall to Jack’s jeans. Jack leans back on his elbows, gives Kent room to dig his phone out of his pocket. “Does 7:30 give us enough time to catch the flight," he says, holding his free hand just to the side of Jack's crotch.

Jack squirms, swallows. “Should be fine.”

Kent puts the phone away. Pushes Jack down on the bed and climbs over him. “Hey, I got an idea," he says. "Wanna 69?”

Jack bites his lip and grins.

 

 

It's nice outside: not sweltering, but warm enough that his ice cream keeps dripping on his fingers. Jack was foreseeing enough to not only buy his scoop in a cup, but to grab a couple paper napkins from the kiosk as well. He hands one of them to Kent, then holds his cup out in front of him.

“It tastes better than it looks,” he says.

Jack’s choice of flavor - salty licorice, Berger’s recommendation - is grey with black streaks in it, and does not, admittedly, look particularly appetizing. Kent takes a spoonful. It’s not the worst thing he’s eaten, but he makes a disgruntled face anyway, because he knows it’ll make both Jack and Berger laugh, and he likes when they laugh at the same thing. Even if it’s him.

“Can you believe Jack got a Gordie Howe before me," he says. Gets back to his strawberry cone.

“I can, in fact,” Berger says. “It’s kinda hard to get one if you never fight.”

“I fight!”

Jack scoffs. “You’ve dropped your gloves like, what? Twice? In seven seasons?”

“I’ll fight _you_ one day,” Kent mutters. “And I'll have you know it’s actually three times by now.”

“Someone’s a sore loser,” Berger teases.

“Yeah, you’ve got two cups and a Calder under your belt, Kenny,” Jack says, smiling. “You can let me have this one.”

“Well, when you put it like _that_.”

When he's finished eating, Kent pads down to the water’s edge and rinses his sticky hands, then lays down on his towel beside Jack. His shades got lost somewhere in Denmark, and he hasn't had a chance to buy a new pair, so he throws his forearm over his eyes to shield them. His gums are cold from the ice cream, and he has water in his left ear and sand in his trunks, and the wind has done a good job of drying his hair, and he thinks about how Berger looked earlier, plodding out of the sea after a swim, the water drops that clung to him gleaming in the sunlight, thinks about Jack before their first dip, covered in goosebumps, smiling at Kent’s “Jesus fuck, it’s freezing”, and it all makes him feel more boyish than he has in years.

 

Back at Berger’s sister’s house, Jack withdraws to the guest room, says he’s got a sunstroke. Kent can tell it’s a white lie, that he’s anxious and tired and probably needs a quiet night but doesn’t want to say so in front of Berger. It’s fine, though: they’ve become so absorbed in each other during the past two weeks that it’s probably healthy to spend a few hours apart. Remember that the world extends beyond the two of them.

Kent joins Berger and a bunch of his old teammates to watch a Euro 2016 game at the local sports bar. One of the guys is starstruck by Kent in a not-so-endearing way, and most of them tend to switch back to Swedish as soon as they’re not speaking directly to him, but he still has an okay time, and he and Berger stay out with them until the place closes at two.

They’re so close to the Arctic Circle that the sun is already up, and the air is brimming with the scent of lilacs. Berger rips a bouquet from a branch that droops over the sidewalk.

“Milla and I used to do this all the time when we were kids,” he says. Pinches a flower off of its stem and holds it gingerly between his thumb and index finger as he sucks the nectar out of it. 

Kent pinches one off, too. It’s sweet on his tongue.

“So,” Berger says.

“So?”

“You and Jack, huh.”

Kent can’t help his grin. “Looks that way.”

"Y'know, I already knew how special he was to you, but seeing you together is --" Berger smiles. "You're different when he's around. Like, in a cool way."

Kent knocks his shoulder against Berger's bicep. "Dude."

"He's less of an asshole than I'd imagined, too."

Kent smirks. "Just wait 'til you get to know him better."

"I'm gonna tell him you said that."

"Don't be surprised if he agrees with me."

Berger freezes. "Look," he whispers. Points to Kent's left.

Kent turns his head just in time to catch a glimpse of a fox padding off the street and in between two apartment buildings.

As soon as it's out of sight, Berger starts walking again.

“God, I keep freaking out every other hour," Kent says, feeling another wave of doubt washing over him. “I honestly don’t know how we're gonna make it once we’re back in the States. I feel like we're gonna fuck it up again.”

“Okay, but you're also like, actually bordering on mature these days. So it might be less of a disaster this time even if it doesn’t work out. Which, I'm not saying it can't. Or won't."

“I just don’t wanna be sad anymore." Kent rubs a hand over his sternum. "Not like I used to be.”

Berger takes a deep breath. "Yeah, I know."

They push through the gap in one of the corners of the hedge surrounding Milla’s house, walk across the garden to the back door.

“I get it now that I’m here, by the way,” Kent says.

Berger looks puzzled. “You do?”

“Why you've had a hard time feeling at home in Vegas.”

“Mm, I guess Denver was a bit more familiar. But I fucking missed the sea there as well."

 

Kent hunches over the kitchen counter, mid-day light clashing with his hangover. "This is new."

“It's just scones," Jack says. "I couldn't find anything else to eat around here."

“Since when do you even know how to bake.”

Jack shakes some more flour into the glass bowl in front of him. "Since college.”

“ _You_ took a _baking class_?

Jack huffs. “Not really. A teammate taught me.” Jack starts stirring the dough. “You, uh. Met him.”

“The little one?”

“You’re not that much bigger than him, Parse,” Jack says. “And I know about your… thing. So.”

"Huh." Kent glances at Jack. He looks more amused than anything else. Which can only mean one thing. “In my defense, I was very drunk.”

"I actually think it was good for him. Not the act, or, uh... Lack thereof." Jack laughs when Kent buries his face in his hands and groans. "But he's always had this like, grudge? Against you? So it seemed like you making a fool of yourself was pretty satisfying for him."

"You're basically saying I did him a favor by falling asleep with my hand down his pants."

Jack shrugs, takes a baking tray out of the drawer under the oven. 

"I thought you'd be mad when you found out."

“I was, for a while. I'm still a little weird about it. But I'd been an ass to both of you so. I don't know. Maybe I had it coming."

Kent turns and hoists himself up on the counter, catches Jack's forearm between his ankles. "You don't have to jump down your own throat _all_ the time, you know."

Jack frowns and smiles at the same time. "Some habits are hard to shake."

 

Berger drops them off at the puny Luleå airport, gives them each a bear hug in the parking lot before driving back into town.

“I like him,” Jack says, passing through the sliding doors into the terminal. “He’s very protective of you.”

“Did he say something? Threaten to cut your balls if you break my heart?”

“He didn’t put it like that, exactly," Jack says, “but I figured that was the underlying message.”

“Hmm. He loves me," Kent says, pleased.

“We’ve got something in common, then."

Kent snorts, and his duffel bag slides off his shoulder. He catches the strap in the crook of his arm. Squints at Jack. "You just went right ahead and said it, didn't you."

Jack raises his eyebrows. “Oh, shit."

Kent shakes his head. “I thought we agreed we were gonna be chill about this.”

“But I didn’t _really_ say it. I was just… implying.”

Kent stops in the short line to the check-in, lets his bag fall to the floor with a thump. “Well, if you think I’m gonna imply it back, you’re wrong.”

“Wow. A few days in, and you’re already withholding.”

“That’s what you get for breaking the rules.”

Jack’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Since when have _you_ ever been chill about anything, anyway.”

“Look who’s talking," Kent says, and flips him off.


End file.
